Jane Carver of Waar

by Nathan Long

  I clobbered Shir on the ear, then shoved him off and staggered up. The net was still tangled around my right arm and leg with two more dragging on it, trying to pull me back down.

  The last guy jumped at my back, but I spotted him and jabbed back with an elbow. I heard a crunch. He dropped.

  I stepped toward Shir, but the three guys I’d thrown were up again and stabbing sticks at me, and the guys holding the net gave up and joined them. I don’t remember what I did next—I had my mad-on, and my brain was as red and hot as a branding iron—but when it was over two of them were across the room, standing on their necks, another was ass-deep in the wall, his head and shoulders hanging out in the cool night air, and two more were draped over the crossbeams above me like wet bed sheets.

  I didn’t notice. I was looking down at little Yaj, sprawled like a broken doll on the plank floor, a river of red pouring from a divot in her neck as big as an orange slice. My heart froze up like a lump of cold lead pressing down on the rest of me.

  Something chunked into my back. No pain. I turned calmly. Shir was raising his ridiculous, murdering spoon for another chop.

  I broke his neck.

  The screaming of the women finally brought the guards. They found me kneeling in the blood on the floor, holding Yaj’s little body in my arms. I was rocking back and forth and crying like a baby.

  ***

  I woke up woozy the next morning to Zhen slapping my face. I tried to stop him, but I couldn’t move my hands. I was in the infirmary, strapped to a cot.

  Zhen stopped slapping. “Good. The brothers wish to see you.” He turned to a pair of guards. “Let her up.”

  The infirmary was in the basement of the trainers’ house. I vaguely remembered being brought down the night before. The saw-bones had given me a slug of booze that smelled like rubbing alcohol, and then went to town on my back with a needle and thread. Luckily I’d stopped Shir’s spoon with a rib, so it hadn’t done any internal damage. Not that I felt real lucky after thirty stitches.

  The guards undid my straps and hauled me upright, as gentle as roustabouts. My head felt like somebody had tossed it in the spin cycle. Zhen led the way out of the room.

  Two dizzy flights up they plopped me down on a backless chair in the brothers’ office. This was the ritziest room in the school—heavy wood furniture, blue walls, sunlight streaming in through stone lattice-work high up near the ceiling, and bronze sculptures of famous gladiators all over the place.

  The whole scene reminded me of a parole review. The brothers sat behind a long table, staring at me. Even though they had plenty of room to stretch out, they stayed hip to hip, heads together and whispering. They looked like Heckle and Jeckle with Rain Man’s disease.

  Sketh blinked at Zhen. “The damages, Fightmaster Zhen?”

  “Yes, damages?” Skir echoed him.

  Zhen clicked his heels together. “Sirs, Shir is dead. Broken neck. The others have only minor wounds. Nydin is worst off with a broken nose. All can work.”

  “And the circumstances?”

  “Yes, tell us the circumstances.”

  Zhen looked at a spot on the wall over the brothers’ heads and recited like a flat-foot on the witness stand. “Sirs, Shir and his companions paid off the bunkhouse guard, broke into the comfort house and attacked Jae-En with makeshift weapons. With the help of the comfort women, Jae-En defended herself and inflicted the aforementioned injuries.”

  The brothers did their whispering act again. Finally Sketh looked up at me. He reminded me of the principal at my second reform school, a long, thin Ichabod Crane motherfucker who always peered over his glasses at me like I’d let down the whole human race by smoking behind the gym.

  Even without glasses Sketh looked like he was peering over his glasses. “It is against the laws of this school for any gladiator to strike another gladiator without permission.”

  Skir piped up. “Even in self-defense.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, wouldn’t want any violence around here.”

  Zhen backhanded me. I was still too swacked from the doc’s Mickey Finn to even flinch.

  Sketh continued like nothing had happened. “The punishment for striking a gladiator without permission is sixty lashes. The punishment for killing a gladiator is death.”

  Skir chimed in again. “Yes, death.”

  I sighed. “Better and better.”

  Another smack from Zhen.

  “However,” Sketh put the tips of his fingers together and looked at me again. He really was just like that idiot principal. “We are aware that you are in many ways the injured party in all of this...”

  Skir picked it up like they’d rehearsed it. “Even though your provocation of Shir was severe. Your actions against him were a deliberate insult.”

  Back to Sketh. “Regardless, in light of the complexities of the case, we have determined that there is only one way to be fair to all parties.” He paused for dramatic effect. Lost on me. I could barely keep my head up.

  Skir delivered the punchline. “Trial by combat. In the arena. You versus the surviving members of the attack.”

  That got through the fog. It even made Zhen cough. I did a little addition. “Me against... two, three, six guys? You call that fair?”

  Zhen put a warning hand on my back. Sketh and Skir were babbling.

  “Such insolence! Certainly is it fair.”

  “Eminently fair.”

  “There is no other way.”

  “None.”

  The interview was over. Zhen muttered to me as he led me out of the office. “Not the only way. Only the most profitable.”

  I nodded. Ask Don King. A grudge match always means big box office.

  ***

  I didn’t much care what they did with me. I was still pretty broken up over Yaj. It’s not like she was my type, hell I probably wasn’t hers, but she’d been so brave, and so loyal—protecting me, protecting the other girls. And she’d been the first person on this shit-ass planet that wanted to hold me, even out of pity. Oh sure, Wen-Jhai had come on to me on the pirate ship, but that had been about her, not about me. Yaj had hugged me. She’d wanted to give me pleasure. And I didn’t just miss her because I’d been so horny lately. I missed her because I missed her, dammit! What I hadn’t let myself admit—because I’m big, tough Jane, who never lets anything get to her—was how fucking lonely I was.

  Ugly as I am, I’ve had plenty partners back on Earth, and believe it or not, more than sex, I missed human contact. Holding someone, having someone’s arms around you on the back of your bike, curling up together on the couch watching a Vikings game. Yaj’s little hug had made me miss that stuff so much it felt like my heart had grown spikes and was stabbing into the rest of me.

  Poor little Yaj. In her weird way I think maybe she’d liked me. She saw me lying by myself when all the other fighters were getting their “rewards” and felt sorry enough for the big pink freak to give herself to me. That knocked the wind out of me. Think about giving yourself to a space alien because you thought it was lonely. And if that wasn’t brave enough, the stupid little bitch went and died for me! All she had to do was hide in the corner and nothing would have happened to her! I couldn’t think about it without choking up again, and I spent my nights replaying the scene in my head, thinking of all the ways I could have saved her if I’d really tried.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  DEATH MATCH!

  They still let me train and eat with the other fighters leading up to the big show, but to keep me safe at night they put me in a room in the trainers’ house. I appreciated the gesture, but now that me and the Ho House girls were finally on good terms it was a little frustrating. Broke up as I was over Yaj I wouldn’t have said no to a little comforting. But not a chance.

  When Lhan heard the deal with the death match he was pig-biting mad. “But this is not just, Mistress Jae-En. Six against one? They only find a new way to murder you.”

  We were practicing together in the yard. Nobody
else would work with me, either because they hated me too much, or they were afraid of pissing off the gang of six. “Hey, I beat ’em once.”

  “But not in the arena. Not all armed with their favored weapons and on their guard. And did you not have help before? Were you not saved by...”

  “Don’t twist the knife, Lhan.”

  “My apologies, Mistress, that was cruel, but I make my point. Even gifted as you are, six are too many, and these are better fighters than Shir. You are in need of help.”

  “Try telling the bosses that.”

  He lowered his sword, a funny look in his eye. “Indeed. I believe I shall.”

  He strode off. I followed, nervous. I didn’t like that look. “Lhan, wait. What are you gonna do?”

  He didn’t answer, just bee-lined for Zhen, who was chewing out a couple fighters, as usual, and stopped in front of him. Zhen cocked an eyebrow. “Something troubling you, Fancy?”

  Lhan bowed. “Sir, I wish to be Mistress Jae-En’s partner in her upcoming bout.”

  The fucking idiot. “Lhan! What the fuck! Don’t do that! There’s no reason—”

  Zhen cut me off. “Sorry, Fancy. You’re too good an investment to risk in a suicide scrap like that.”

  “But is not Mistress Jae-En an even better investment? Want you such a prospect to die against such unfair odds?”

  “What I want matters not. Your masters feel Mistress Jae-En is more trouble than she’s worth. She has divided the stable, made trouble with the whores, and killed a gladiator with many good years left in him. If Jae-En wins, she removes the men who hate her most and things may settle down. If she loses, the source of the trouble is gone.”

  “But ’tis unfair! I demand...”

  “You demand? You forget you’re a slave now, Dhan Ruffler. I sympathize with you, and with Jae-En. Never have I had two better students, but I haven’t the power nor the inclination to put you in that match. That match is punishment for killing and attempting to kill gladiators out of the arena.”

  Lhan smiled, sad and grim. “Then you have no choice but to put me in.”

  “For what?”

  Before I knew what he was doing, Lhan slapped Zhen across the face. It was so loud, half the yard turned and stared.

  Lhan bowed. “Consider it my feeble attempt to kill you.”

  Zhen stood stock still. His head had barely moved when Lhan had slapped him. Now he was as rigid as a sword. The whole yard held its breath.

  Finally he spoke. “I will inform the brothers of your crime. They will decide your fate.”

  He turned and walked to the trainers’ house, back straight as a Mountie’s. On the way he told his seconds to take over, but didn’t tell anybody to lock Lhan up. I hoped that was a good sign.

  I turned on Lhan. “What the hell was that? What were you thinking?”

  “Could I leave you to die, Mistress?”

  “But what about Sai and Wen-Jhai? How are we gonna save the if both of us are dead?”

  “We won’t die. We two are more than a match for six.”

  I nearly hit him I was so mad. “That’s only if they put you in the match! What if they decide to cut your throat? Or put you in your own death match? Did you think of that?”

  That brought him up short for a second. Then he shrugged. “What is, is. Honor would not have allowed me to do otherwise.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that sometimes us damsels in distress don’t need saving?”

  He smiled at me, the bastard. “Never, Mistress. Never.”

  ***

  Zhen made us wait a whole night to get the decision, and I didn’t get a wink. My head was full of escape plans which always stopped short once I got over the wall. It’s hard to make escape routes when you don’t know where you are.

  Next morning at line-up Zhen called me and Lhan aside. The rest of the school got so quiet you could have heard an ant fart. Zhen turned and barked at them. “Have you all lost your tongues? Is the art of conversation dead?” He turned back when the fighters reluctantly started talking about the weather and who got hurt last week.

  He stabbed a look at Lhan. “You’re a brave fool, Fancy. Fortunately for you, I was a brave fool myself once, or you’d be swinging at the end of a rope. Instead, I convinced the brothers that a noble-friend-comes-to-the-aid-of-his-lover story would bring in more women. You have your match.”

  Lhan stiffened. “Lover? You insult Mistress Jae-En this way?”

  I wasn’t a bit insulted, but now wasn’t the time to mention it.

  Zhen looked like he was going to hit Lhan. “You do not want the match?”

  Lhan relaxed and bowed. “My apologies, sir. You are kinder than I deserve.”

  “Very true, Fancy.”

  Zhen went back to the class. Lhan and I exchanged a glance. He smiled. “You see?”

  “Oh, I see all right. Now I’m gonna have to watch out for your ass as well as my own.”

  ***

  We’d already killed two of them when Lhan stopped dead beside me, staring up over my shoulder. “Sai!”

  I couldn’t look. The big guy with the cornrows and the super-size spear and the little guy with the chain mail catcher’s mitt and the razorblade boomerangs were making things hot for me right then.

  Lhan had been right. Six-on-one would have sucked. They had me scouted, but good. They knew all my tricks and had come up with some countermoves I didn’t like one bit. The maneuver that was a pain in my posterior at that particular moment was where Corn-Rows would trap me against the arena wall with that long-ass spear, and the little guy would hook those fucking boomerangs around him like a curveball buzzsaw out of nowhere. If I blocked a boomerang the spear jabbed in at me. If I blocked the spear the boomerangs got in my face.

  Even leaping out of trouble was tough. If I jumped I’d either get a spear-head up my poop-chute or get picked off in mid-flight like a spooked duck. But just standing there wasn’t working either. I was starting to look like the world’s worst paper cut casualty. My whole body stung.

  Lhan had his hands full with his two guys too. One was a whip-thin killer with a slim sword. The other was a bouncy guy with a long pitchfork. Lhan’s strategy was to keep moving so they got in each other’s way, but that meant constant running, and he was starting to get winded.

  And now he had Sai to distract him. Great.

  Corn-Rows’ spear shot toward my heart. I blocked it, but kept my eyes on Mr. Boomerang. He snapped off another throw and it winged over Corn-Rows’ left shoulder, right into my strike zone. Idea! Instead of deflecting it like the others, I swung at it like Mark McGuire and connected. The boomerang linedrived right back at Corn-Rows and buried itself deep in his forehead. His eyes rolled up and he sagged.

  Boomerang whipped his last two kangaroo killers at me, desperate. I grabbed Corn-Rows as he fell and held him up like a human shield. Two jolts jarred me as the boomerangs bit into his back.

  Mr. Boomerang ran to a dead guy, trying to get a weapon. I heaved Corn-Rows at him and knocked him flat. The crowd cheered. They were behind us all the way this time. They always loved the underdog, and two against six was as underdog as you could get.

  As I ran to help Lhan I took a quick glance where he’d pointed. It was Sai all right. He was dressed in a dangerously short toga and painted up like a geisha, but I’d recognize those mopey shoulders anywhere.

  He was in one of the private boxes, sitting beside his skinny, prune-faced owner. There were two hunky bodyguards behind them. The old perv was looking down at the action with shiny eyes. He seemed to like watching sweaty, naked men fight. Sai looked comatose, like he was on a heroin nod. But he wasn’t entirely out of it. When prune-face put a hand on Sai’s knee I saw him shudder. Then it was time to stop looking.

  I’d done a stupid thing throwing Corn-Rows’ body at Boomerang. I was taking the Pitchfork guy off Lhan’s hands when a boomerang ricocheted off my helmet. Duh! I’d given the little fucker back his arsenal! Now I was back where I’d started, on
e guy stabbing, one guy throwing. And worse, Lhan wasn’t on his game. He was fighting as well as always, but he wasn’t capitalizing on his advantages. Every time he won some breathing room, he’d sneak another look at Sai and Prune-Face instead of pressing his attack. He could have nailed Swashbuckler twice over if he’d been trying.

  I shouted to him. “Come on, Lhan! Get it over with!”

  “The filthy, corrupting cadaver! He...”

  I parried a boomerang like Luke Skywalker blocking blaster fire. “Worry about him later. I could use a little help here.”

  I leaped a pitchfork thrust and we drifted apart again. I had to flip in mid-air to dodge another boomerang. Pitchfork ran under me, hoping to shish-kabob me, but I pulled my trick, throwing the weight of my sword out and snapping myself into a lopsided twist. I landed behind him.

  He twisted and stabbed with his pitchfork, desperate. I batted the shaft away barehanded and ran him through, right up to the hilt. He puked blood on my armor. I shuddered.

  A boomerang bit into one of my shin guards. No time to be sick. I spun, not even trying to pull my sword free, and threw the dead guy’s pitchfork at Boomerang, blind.

  It wasn’t a good throw, but it was good enough. As the pitchfork wobbled past him, a barbed tine pierced his forearm. Not a killing blow, but he couldn’t throw with that fork hooked through his arm. He was out of the fight.

  I turned to help Lhan. He’d kicked Swashbuckler to the ground, but instead of running him through, he was stepping toward the stands, shouting. “Sai! Beloved! Unhand him, you...”

  I followed his gaze, thinking, ‘Beloved?’

  In Prune-Face’s private box things had reached a climax, so to speak. Prune-Face had his hand under Sai’s loincloth and was fiddling about.

  This was more than Lhan could stand. He threw his sword in Swashbuckler’s face, snatched up the super-spear from Corn-Row’s body, and chucked it as hard as he could toward the box. Prune-Face took it in the gut and flew back, pinned to the back wall like a butterfly.